


Skellington

by Pasteles, Succulents



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 18th Century, Bad Poetry, Frankenstein AU, Gift Fic, Human Kilgharrah, M/M, Magic Revealed, Poet!Arthur, graveyards, halloween fic, monster!merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8422261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pasteles/pseuds/Pasteles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succulents/pseuds/Succulents
Summary: ((Skellington/Frankenstein AU)) Arthur's been reincarnated in the 18th century when magic is still something punishable by death. But something's wrong, Merlin is no where to be found upon the once and future kings return. Kilgharrah, who has been bound into a human form, takes it upon himself to bring back the powerful sorcerer. In a twist of destiny, Arthur and Merlin meet before Kilgharrah's work is finished. Thank you so much to Whimyscatcher for the beautiful art piece all those months ago, here is the fic we promised in return. Just in time for Halloween too! Here is the link to the art!http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/141683381838





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsycatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/gifts).



"Merlin!" Kilgharrah's voice was sharp and caustic, biting into the already deep wounds on the young man. "That was the fifth time this week you've poisoned my tea." He nearly growled, fiercely grabbing onto Merlin's abnormally skinny wrist and dragging him back down the alleyway towards the dank hovel he called his laboratory. 

 

Kilgharrah was an inventor, and a quite brilliant one at that. He was quite proud of his most complex creation, a living human by the name of Merlin. However, whatever pride he felt for the insolent young man was often overshadowed by his stubborn, blatant disregard for the rules Kilgharrah had laid out. Unfortunately, the young man also seemed to have a penchant for attempted poisoning, luckily the old inventor had developed quite a resistance. The poison would not so much kill him as it would incapacitate him for a little while. 

 

"I told you to remain inside!" Kilgharrah hissed. "Do not forget, both your life and your magic belong to me, as they always have and always will be!" He shoved the young man forwards into the dirty, unkept closet that was his room, turning the lock in the door with a self-satisfying click. 

 

"Bite me." Came Merlin's sarcastic response from within. He rolled his eyes, picking lightly at the stitches on his hands. Much of his body was in one piece, by some miracle, but his hands always seemed to be the exception, held on only by magic and a little bit of luck. He tugged at the handle of the doors, wanting nothing more than to leave this stinking place and never return. That's all he ever wanted. 

 

~~~

 

Arthur was going to hit his head against a wall if he had to listen to another of these anti-magic seminars, the half witted professor was only quoting his father anyway. If he'd wanted this kind of an education he could have stayed at home. 

 

Arthur Pendragon was only taking the class to appease his father who wanted him to join the council against sorcery; the class had nothing to do with his studies anyways. He'd gone to the University of Carleon to study language and to become a poet, something that infuriated Uther Pendragon nearly just as much as the use of magic. They're household was rather split, with son and father arguing about careers and Morgana, his father's ward, remaining all too ambiguous. Arthur was almost too glad to be off studying far away from his father's expectations. All he ever wanted was too leave the expectations placed on him behind, and never to return.

 

As his last professor of the day wrapped up his lecture, Arthur was itching to get out of the musty smelling lecture hall. There was nothing for him to learn there anyways, and hatred for something so rarely found was not the muse he wanted for his poetry. Longing for the professor to dismiss them, Arthur was the first one out the door. He would need to be quick if he wanted to avoid his colleagues that would surely distract him from his desired course of action. Carrying only his book bag full of half filled notebooks and a light jacket, the young scholar set off for the cemetery where his mother was buried. Lately she had been his muse, but using only what information he could glean from his father's friend, Gaius, was not enough and he'd taken to visiting the grave. The graveyard was quiet and secluded, the perfect place to write.

 

Arthur sat, slumped beneath one of the trees, in the quietness of the graveyard for hours. Sometimes he'd accidentally fall asleep there and wake in the morning wet with dew and feeling eerie presences about himself, he would not return on those nights. 

 

"Moon-light... I'll-umin-ates those... That I will... Never know..." Arthur mumbled each syllable as he scribbled it into his book, crossing it out with a sigh. Too often did his poems feature moonlight and loss, he wished he could find something happy to write about. His mother had been a kind and happy woman, Gaius often said this, but Arthur's memories of her were only of vacancy and sadness. His works did not do her justice. Sighing and stuffing his book back into his sack, Arthur stood and went to his mother's grave where he touched the top of her headstone-- a thing he often did before parting. That was when he heard someone else enter the graveyard. 

 

~~~

 

Merlin, eyes half-closed, stared blankly at the wall across from him. The sandy, rough bricks had been poorly sandwiched together with mortar and now the walls were crumbling from the inside out, part due to age, part due to neglect. In some ways, Merlin felt about the same as the deteriorating building. After all, he was reminded time in and time out just how poor of a creation he was--refusing to listen to his master and do his bidding unquestionably. Merlin had been told often how he was a failure, but too much time and effort had been invested in him to just scrap him and start over. 

 

However, Merlin didn't feel like a failure. He was alive, wasn't he? And he possessed magical talent far more powerful than any sorcerers that had walked the earth before him. That couldn't be counted as a great failure! Well... Looking down at his chapped hands, he noticed that the new stitching was already beginning to pull apart at the seams. How can something so broken wield such power? Merlin wondered. 

 

Merlin sat there for the rest of the afternoon, in an odd state between wakefulness and sleep. He did that often, shutting his mind and body down. It relaxed him, leaving him in a lucid form of semi-consciousness. It was in this state where he discovered his penchant for magic in the first place. Unfortunately, Kilgharrah's voice never failed to wake him in an instant. 

 

"Merlin, my boy, you may come out now if you promise to behave." Merlin grit his teeth, the seething hatred he felt for the man overflowing his senses. He heard the key turn in the lock and remained where he was on the floor as the door opened. As soon as the old man walked over the threshold, Merlin leapt to his feet and swung a hard punch to Kilgharrah's head. His fist made contact with the side of his nose and the man was swept back with the force of the blow. 

 

"Damn it, you bastard!" He cursed. Merlin felt something rip--the stitches!-- and he looked to see his hand dangling by only a few threads. He grimaced when Kilgharrah blindly reached to grab at him, swiping the air with malice. His claw like hands snagged on his fingers and snapped the final threads. His hand fell to the ground and Merlin dashed away, knowing that going back to retrieve it would be futile and would only cost him time. Merlin's feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted out the door and into the winding cobblestone streets. He hid the stump of his arm in the fabric of his too-big shirt. Cripples were common on the streets of London, but not those with one working hand stitched on too. 

 

Merlin ran away from Kilgharrah often. Sometimes he was gone for a day or two, other times more than a week. In the end, however, he always had to resign himself to returning. There was simply no room in London for a freak such as him. With Kilgharrah, at least, there was a lukewarm hearth to sleep by and even an occasional meal, if he was good. Merlin often ran away simply for the change of pace, tasting the bitter freedom that came with sleeping in alleyways and rummaging for food. 

 

He often came to the graveyard at the end of the lane, mostly because of its solidarity. Many of the bodies there had been laid to rest decades beforehand, so it was rare to find a mourner sitting graveside, at least when Merlin was there. There was a particular corner of the cemetery he most frequented. Breathing heavily, Merlin leaned against one of taller grave markers. He was already quite weak--poor nutrition and subpart sleeping habits did that to you--and all of this excitement was only draining his energy more. He cradled the stump of his wrist to his chest. 

 

~~~

 

Arthur tried to see who had entered, but there were too many shadows in the dimly lit cemetery for him to catch a glimpse of anyone. Stumbling slightly as he maneuvered, partly because of the dark but mostly from the rush of adrenalin, Arthur stood up tall and attempted to look somewhat intimidating. 

 

"Hello?" He cursed his voice for wavering, not the effect he was going for at all. Arthur had heard the more rowdy boys at his university speak of body-raiders and alchemist in the graveyards, but he'd never considered them a possibility till now. Or, of course there was the possibility of a stray magic user or another ghoulish figure that his childhood fears cast into the reality of the cemetery. Shoving those fears to the back of his mind, Arthur tried again with a firmer voice. "Is anyone there?"

 

Startled, Merlin jumped back and ducked behind a larger gravestone, one that would provide more cover. The absolute last thing that he needed right now was for him to be seen--or worse, caught--by anyone. He could use his magic if he had to, but he was weak. The exertion from such an attempt may nearly kill him. 

 

"No." He squeaked. "Nobody of consequence is here. It's just me, friend." Merlin physically flinched at his choice of words. Oh, he was an idiot. He was such an idiot. He shoved his handless arm as deep as it would go into the pocket of his threadbare jacket. Merlin was surprised to find a wadded up ball of paper in there. Using his opposite arm and remaining hand, he tore it out from his pocket and realized it was a newspaper clipping he had saved. 

 

Many times, when Merlin would escape and run a muck, he would scrounge rubbish bins for newspapers. There was a wonderful poet in a lesser known periodical that Merlin absolutely loved to read the works of whenever he could. The poems were signed only with initials-- AP. 

 

Arthur's brow furrowed, looking towards the voice. "Friend? You can't address me like that, show yourself." The voice was vaguely familiar, comforting to a degree, but its disembodiment made Arthur's skin crawl. Or maybe that was the cold. It didn't matter, he was intrigued now. This person, whoever they were, had invaded his place of solace and now he wanted to know who. 

 

"I can address you however I please, you big prat." Merlin shot back, remaining in relative safety behind the large gravestone. He glanced around, finding no direct path out of the graveyard. 

 

Like a cornered animal, he had nowhere to go and was trapped. Oh, he was an idiot! Slinking further into the shadows, a chill traveled up his spine. He gnawed on his lower lip; would the other man try to attack him? He certainly didn't have the strength to fight him off. Perhaps he could try to scare him away... 

 

Arthur rolled his eyes at the voices returning remark. Great, now he was stuck in a graveyard with a cheeky spirit. "Show yourself," He called into the darkness again, footsteps a bit more sure now as he shuffled through the headstones towards the voice. 

 

"By the light of the moon, I hear your voice..." Arthur mumbled under his breath, a line from one on the poems he'd published-- he should really stop writing about graveyards. Finally he approached the spot where he'd heard the voice resonate from moments before, and of course Arthur had to trip just as he rounded the gravestone. Foot catching on a root and causing him to propel into the someone hiding away from him.

 

Merlin, quite ungracefully, dropped like a stone when the stranger collided with him as he attempted his retreat. The bottom portion of his ribcage had slammed painfully down in the rough edge of a gravestone and he wheezed, the wind having been knocked out of him. He laid there in the dirt for a moment, head swimming. Merlin recognized the cadence of the words he spoke; the man was quoting a poem, but, oh, it had to be just a coincidence. Those words were easy enough to come up with on your own, weren't they? Regardless, Merlin felt the incentive to finish out the stanza. 

 

"Calling to me, in the night." 

 

Arthur winced as he heard the air rush out of the lungs of the poor bloke he'd fallen into, although serves him right for snooping around graves at night. Forming an apology in his mouth, Arthur paused as the crisp voice echoed the rest of the stanza back to him. 

 

"How did you...?" Arthur sat up quickly, looking down at the pale form next to him who stole his question from his lips. The young man was exquisite, something delicate but sharp. His cheekbones were prominent and high, just adding to the effect of his rippling blue eyes that were locked onto Arthur's-- only partially hidden by the his raven hair. "You knew the poem." Arthur found his breath.

 

"Well, I do believe that's the point. It was in the newspaper for anybody to read." Merlin replied huffily, shoving his handless arm further into his pocket. He frowned, his eyes scanning over the man that had so carelessly knocked him over. The annoyance and disdain Merlin has previously harbored against the man dissipated in favor of his, frankly, unfair physical appearance. Goodness, Merlin was stunned. The blonde's square jaw and sloped nose made him look regal, almost as if he were a god. Well, Merlin didn't believe in a higher power. Such a being wouldn't have allowed him to live in such torture. 

 

"I didn't know anyone else read them," Arthur smiled genuinely, he was astonished that someone knew at least one of his poems. Rolling into a sitting position rather than sprawled out on the cemetery dirt, he brushed off his trousers. "Sorry for running into you there mate, serves you right for snooping about graveyards though." Arthur chuckled uneasily, hoping that didn't come off as too odd. Extending his hand, he spoke again. "I'm Arthur."

 

"I wasn't snooping." Instead of Merlin reciprocating Arthur's feeble attempt at a handshake, he shoved both of his hands (or lack of) into his pockets and worked to sit up. "And I'm Merlin. Pleased to meet you." He spoke with short, clipped sentences, avoiding looking directly at the blond. Arthur was much like the sun: it hurt too much to look at him straight on, so he could only enjoy his beauty indirectly. Merlin quirked his head, wishing that there was a more polite way to refuse the frankly annoying courtesy of shaking hands. For the time being, he didn't harbor much disdain for the unfairly handsome blond; he didn't particularly feel like offending him at the moment. 

 

Dropping his arm back to his side awkwardly, Arthur's lips twitched down slightly as Merlin refused his handshake. Part of him wanted to know if the mans, Merlin's skin was as soft as the moonlight made it appear to be. Shaking the thoughts from his head, Arthur slid back into an easy smile. "The pleasure is mine," he shifted closer to the peculiar young man, suddenly very interested in him. "Do you read much poetry? If you don't mind me asking, it's just rather intriguing to find someone who'd know such an obscure piece of work."

 

Merlin blushed, two blooms of color appearing on his abnormally high cheekbones. "I-I..." He stammered. "I don't read as much as I'd like to, but, well, it's hard." He shifted so that his feet were underneath him; his trousers were laughably short on him, and he didn't quite feel like explaining the stitches around his ankles (not to mention the scarring). As if he weren't embarrassing himself enough, Merlin realized, he had just made it sound like he didn't know how to read. Fantastic, he thought wryly. He did consider his brain to be the only whole piece of him--not a single stitch was needed to hold his head together. 

 

A soft chuckle bubbled on Arthur's lips at seeing how flustered the young man seemed upon making his acquaintance. "Easy there Merlin," he reached out, placing a steadying hand on the lad's shoulder. "I like to read Samuel Butler when I get the chance. Who's you're favorite?" Merlin was very tense, perhaps it had to do with meeting a stranger in a cemetery at night, but Arthur searched for common ground between them to try and set the young man at ease. 

 

When Arthur laid a hand on him he immediately stiffened. "Erm, yeah, yeah. Butler's good." In truth, Merlin had not yet had the chance to so much as read a single word of his writing--in fact, he'd never even heard of the poet. "I usually just read whatever's in the newspaper. The poet just goes by the initials AP. Whoever they are, they're brilliant." He said sheepishly, relaxing minutely under Arthur's touch. Oh, he was just so warm! The heat from his hand, where it rested atop Merlin's shoulder, seemed to burn right through to his bare skin. He blushed, thinking of other things and just how odd it was that he was sitting in a graveyard with a man he'd just met and, somehow, he felt no fear. 

 

Flushing a bright pink hue across his cheeks, Arthur bit his lip and turned his head away from Merlin's view-- keeping his hand on his shoulder. "Really? He's a bit melancholy, wouldn't you say? Needs a new muse..." Merlin was one of his readers, oh how Arthur had agonized over the thought of no one reading his works. Yet, here one was. Of bloody course they had to meet in a graveyard. Clearing his throat quietly and willing his blush away, Arthur turned back to face Merlin. His eyes searching for the answers to questions he could not ask: was he a good poet?

 

"Oh no, I think he's brilliant." Merlin reiterated. In truth, he felt that the initialed poet's melancholy stanzas truly expressed the anguish he felt on a day to day basis. Reading his works, it was nice to know that someone else out there felt the same way and could, at least, turn their pain into something beautiful. That was one of the main reasons Merlin always hoarded those scraps of printed paper; AP's writing lit the slightest ember of hope within him. Maybe one day, the flames would roar into a growing fire, setting him free from his life of misery and woe. 

 

Realizing suddenly that his hand was still resting heavily on Merlin's shoulder, Arthur pulled back awkwardly. "Sorry." He mumbled, looking at Merlin with unabashed curiosity. He was odd, almost enchanting as some had described magic users to be, but there was no evidence of malice or evil about him. It made an unbearably rude question swell on the tip of Arthur's tongue, threatening to pour out if he didn't watch his words. Of course, asking Merlin if he possessed Magic was not only rude but could potentially put the young man in danger. "It's good to hear someone say that about him, AP that is. Sometimes I feel like he's lost his way." Arthur murmured the last part a bit more quietly, "So are you a student at the university or..?"

 

"No, no." Merlin's ears turned bright red. Oh, he was a terrible liar. "I'm visiting. I know one of the professors." Bloody hell, did he always have to be so stupid! He gnawed on his lower lip and nervously fidgeted with his one good hand, twisting his fingers into the rough fabric of his shirt. "He's, erm, a family friend." That part was true enough, at least. Kilgharrah was the only family Merlin knew. He had no one else in the world, so what did it matter. "Speaking of which, he'll probably be looking for me now..." Another truth. Kilgharrah would be furious, as always. He really ought to get back, perhaps try to stave of as much of his anger as possible, at least for a little while. 

 

Arthur smiled with all the sincerity he could muster, he understood why Merlin would be in such a haste to leave-- he'd behave much the same if he weren't so fascinated by the lanky man himself. "Suppose you're right, it is getting quite late." Arthur looked up at the sky, as if it could tell the time. He stood up abruptly, the cold earth of the cemetery had started to dampen his trousers anyways and he didn't need to give Gwaine any more reasons to tease him than he already had. "I don't suppose I'll see you again?" Extending a hand to Merlin to help him up, Arthur formulated the statement as a question. For some odd reason he didn't want this to be the last he saw of the raven haired man, Merlin was a fascinating subject and Arthur felt drawn to him in an inexplicable way.

 

Forgetting himself for a moment, Merlin returned Arthur's smile and outstretched his hand, grateful for assistance in getting up from the dewy ground. He did not realize his mistake for an agonizing second, the mere moment stretched into eternity. As soon as he did realize, however, the sheer force of his stupidity hit him much like a brick. Merlin was touching Arthur-- the skin on the blond man's hand soft, warm, and, most importantly, whole. He gaze flickered back at his own hand The dark stitches on his hand contrasted sharply with his nearly translucent skin. His eyes widened and he snatched his hand back. Merlin choked out a "No." in response to Arthur's question. 

 

Touching Merlin's hand was like an electrical shock, it left Arthur a bit stunned and breathless with how quickly the contact was snatched from him. "I'm sorry to hear that," Arthur frowned, but only for a moment, shifting to a neutral expression before Merlin could see. Finally meeting someone who openly praised his work-- something Arthur had not even received from his family, he did not want to let it go. "Perhaps destiny has other ideas? It was nice to meet you Merlin." His smile was back, charming as ever, contrasting heavily with the surrounding cemetery that was growing darker by the minute.

 

"Destiny." Merlin scoffed. "Right." Kilgharrah would often rant about Merlin's so-called destiny until he was blue in the face. Merlin thought that it was just some prose to gain his obedience--something he would never give. His arms safely hidden inside his jacket, Merlin remembered his manners (finally). "It was nice to meet you too." He said with an attempt at a smile, though really it was more of a grimace. Merlin knew that if he didn't force himself to leave the cemetery soon, he'd stay until the end of time for hope of seeing Arthur again. Handsome, kindly Arthur. Merlin turned and ran into the night before he could delay any longer. 

 

Arthur watched as Merlin scampered off into the night, continually awed by the aura surrounding the young man. "Loves my poetry, but doesn't believe in destiny." Arthur snorted, apparently he wasn't doing his job well enough then.

**Author's Note:**

> This may turn into an epic of sorts if Pasteles and I can get our lives in order


End file.
